


Scar Tissue

by sual



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Coming Untouched, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Prostate Orgasms, Scarring, Trans Female Character, Vague descriptions of wounds being stitched up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sual/pseuds/sual
Summary: Grell discovers that she's not the only reaper who's shy about what's between their legs.Or: the fic where Undertaker reallyisscarred all over.





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

> Another one that got away from me haha, I thought it wouldn't be much more than 3000 words and it's more than twice that...whoops.
> 
> This story came about as a sort of what-if response to Undertaker's dick always being conveniently unscathed by scars in fanfiction. It's probably super medically and anatomically inaccurate, so please don't take it too seriously lol. (I think I was also subconsciously inspired by that old rumour about Rasputin having a very conveniently placed lump on his dick, which is supposedly why women liked him so much.)
> 
> Let me know what you thought~!

Grell is used to getting mixed messages from the objects of her affection.

She’s been mooning over William for the better part of her afterlife, after all. One moment he’s fishing her out of the Atlantic to save her from a watery second death, the next his scythe is halfway up her nose. One day he’ll rescue her in dramatic fashion from a handsome demon, and then not two minutes later he’ll kick her in the face. Repeatedly. And don’t even get her started on Sebastian – for all of his professions of disgust with her, the demon can be terribly considerate and charming (when he wants something from her, that is; she’s not stupid).

So yes, she knows all about mixed messages, but this…

“How about I go and make us some tea?” Undertaker suddenly says with an edge of panic to his voice, leaving Grell with her lips still puckered kissing thin air while he abruptly abandons her to wander towards the kitchen.

…This is just getting ridiculous.

Grell barely resists the urge to scream. Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, she manages to limit herself to a loud sigh through her nose and a brief, silent plea to the higher-ups for patience. This is the _fifth_ time that Undertaker has cut short one of their make-out sessions without warning, and she cannot for the death of her figure out _why_. She’s hard. _He’s_ hard, if the insistent bulge that had been pressing against her thigh about a minute ago is anything to go by – not to mention his awkward gait when he shuffled quickly out of the room.

At first, she had assumed that the ancient reaper was just old-fashioned, preferring to take things slowly. Which would be fine, if he stuck to chaste kisses and romantic dinners, but Undertaker can’t seem to keep his creepy hands off of her. The mortician has just spent the last twenty minutes trying to positively devour her, kissing her breathless and biting at her collarbone. Her shirt is half undone, she’s going to have to cover up the hickeys on her neck at work tomorrow and, at this point, Grell’s not even sure where her waistcoat has gone.

It’s like he wants her, desperately so, but something keeps scaring him off.

Grell huffs, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, eyes wandering around the gloomy room she suddenly finds herself alone in. As it turns out, Undertaker owns about half of the funeral parlours in London; the one she visited as Madam Red’s butler lies dusty and abandoned after the Campania incident. The shop she found him in today is one of the smaller branches, nowhere to play with the old reaper but on top of the coffins in the workroom. Grell has an awful feeling that there’s a dead body in the one they’ve been necking on top of.

 _Really._ She’s already taking a hell of a risk by carrying on an illicit affair with a deserter. If Will ever finds out that she’s been keeping the location of a known fugitive secret he’ll probably decapitate her himself. The _least_ Undertaker could do is be honest about her chances of getting laid.

It’s not like past flings haven’t suddenly lost interest before, but…but she thought Undertaker was _different_ , is the thing; he knows full well that she’s not like other women but he comes back for more anyway, greeting her amorously whenever she finds a moment to sneak away and see him. She wraps her arms around herself miserably. Perhaps he has only been trying to be open-minded for her sake; maybe he really can’t see past this cursed body of hers after all.

Undertaker trots back into the room with a tray of beakers and biscuits, still looking as rumpled as when he left. She’d managed to get him down to the grey shirt he wears under those priest-like robes of his before he ran away this time.

“Here we are, my darling,” he says pleasantly.

The sight of him still half-hard and tenting his trousers drags Grell straight out of her moping and right into fury.

“If it bothers you so much, I wish you would just come out and say so!!” Grell shouts, expression dark.

Undertaker freezes mid-stride, looking somewhat comical standing there with the tray of tea in his hands. He tilts his head to the side in confusion. “…If what bothers me?” he asks, mouth set in an unhappy little pout.

“What’s between my legs,” Grell says venomously. She can feel her cheeks getting hot with embarrassment at having to bring the subject up at all. _How mortifying._

The older reaper nearly drops the tea tray in his rush to settle himself on the floor between her knees. She’s startled enough by how quickly he moves that she doesn’t have a moment to protest him shuffling closer between her thighs, wrapping his arms around her waist and peering up at her wide-eyed with his chin resting on her chest.

“Darling, you’re perfect as you are,” he reassures her hurriedly. There’s something pleading in his expression, she thinks; curious. “You could have teeth down there and I’d still think so.”

Grell makes a face at that mental image. She turns away from him with a deep sigh, fury draining out of her just as quickly as it arrived to be replaced with a familiar weariness. Undertaker’s head tilts again like a confused puppy; pulling away cautiously, he hands her one of the beakers of tea from his tray before settling himself next to her on the coffin lid.

“What’s brought this on, love?” Undertaker asks earnestly, knocking her knee playfully with his own.

“I’m not as stupid as the rumours would have you believe, you know,” Grell begins sullenly. “You keep running away whenever things get too hot and heavy between us. What _else_ am I supposed to think?” she mumbles into her beaker.

There’s a heavy silence between them for a moment. And then-

…the mortician starts giggling into his fist. Typical. Her first instinct is to shout at him, but it’s…not a happy sound, she realizes; there’s a hollow, hysterical quality to his laughter. Even so, she shoves her knee back against his irritably.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just- _heehee,_ this always sounds awful, doesn’t it? ‘It’s not you, it’s me’, _hah_!” he wheezes. After a little cough he sobers, letting his fringe fall over his eyes almost shyly. “It really is me, though.”

The red-haired reaper blinks slowly. “Tell me,” she urges quietly, pressing against his side.

“…Would you believe I’m shy about my private parts too?” he grins ruefully.

Well. That’s. Not anywhere _near_ what she was expecting the problem to be. Grell scoots closer to settle herself across his lap. “I don’t see why you would be,” she purrs. “From what I’ve felt, you _certainly_ have nothing to be ashamed of.”

He curls an arm around her waist with a soft, indulgent smile. “Ah, but you haven’t seen it yet, dear, only felt it,” he says. “The thing is…hm.” He looks away and- is that actually a rare blush on his cheeks, only just hidden by his hair? Grell keeps her gaze on him expectantly, waiting patiently for him to elaborate. The silence stretches awkwardly for a minute but, at length, Undertaker huffs another self-deprecating little laugh.

“Let’s just say I’m scarred all over, shall we?” he mutters, mouth twisted sardonically in a half-smile.

“But you _know_ I love your scars!” Grell blurts out immediately, and it’s true – they’re awfully fun to lick and trace with both hands and tongue, raised lines of ragged flesh with the skin around it pulled taut by stitches in all sorts of interesting ways. She dips her head to suck gently at the one circling around his neck just to prove it.

“I- mm, that feels nice…it’s just- ah.” Undertaker rubs his head against hers affectionately. Worshipping his mauled skin like this always makes the old reaper melt into her touch. “It’s just, I haven’t, uh…shown anyone my prick since I got the scars. It’s not. Not pretty. Bit grotesque, really.”

“And I’d rather I didn’t have mine at all, so I’d say we’re fairly even,” Grell points out. She licks her way up to his earlobe, sucking at it softly. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” she whispers as seductively as she can manage, directly into his ear.

A shiver ripples through the mortician, his arms tightening reflexively around her, but he hesitates. It’s odd seeing him torn like this; she’s never known him as anything but sure of himself, quietly confident and just on the edge of cocky. She nibbles at his ears while he deliberates silently, idly plucking the buttons of his grey shirt open to search out the scars on his torso with her fingertips.

“ _Eeeheehee,_ tickles,” Undertaker laughs quietly, squirming under her feather-light touches. He sighs as if terribly put-upon, nuzzling at her red hair with a smile. “Fine, fine, you little monster, you win…don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”

He pulls her closer to resume their kissing at a more leisurely pace than before, cautious to step into new territory it seems. Grell hums against his lips happily, more than fine with slowing down if it means she gets to play with him for longer. The way he touches her is less hungry and frantic than it was when she arrived earlier that evening; instead, there’s an odd combination of possessiveness and nerves, as if each sweep of his tongue against hers is saying _please don’t let me scare you away_.

She knows the feeling well.

Unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, she slips from his lap to kneel in front of him on the floor, dragging her lips down his neck to lavish the scars on his chest with affection too. The old reaper’s skin is so pale that it’s almost grey, like one of his specimens kept in jars of formaldehyde, all the colour faded away. She slowly licks the length of the scar spanning over the left side of his ribcage, orderly little bumps under her tongue where the flesh has healed around the stitches. She’s noticed before that some of his scars are less neat than others – the mortician has never said as much and she’s never asked, but Grell gets the feeling that he had to stitch himself up when he got these wounds. There’s one on his shoulder blade that’s particularly ragged and wobbly; hard to reach on your own with a needle and thread, she supposes. Perhaps the one on his cock is a bit like that.

Though he sighs with pleasure, Undertaker is still a little tense beneath her, breath coming in sharp, erratic bursts that he tries to keep quiet. One of his hands settles on her head, combing his long nails through her hair, the other pulling absently at the buttons still just about keeping her shirt closed. Grell leans into his nails encouragingly, humming contended little moans against his skin every now and then as she makes her way down to the scar slashed over his right hipbone.

She blinks up at him adoringly while she bites lightly at it, only to find him already staring down at her, glowing green eyes half-lidded and hazy. Feeling confident that she’s got his brain foggy enough with lust to chance it, Grell slips her hand between his legs to press her palm over his erection.

Undertaker gives a full-body flinch at the contact, immediately cringing at his own reaction.

“Sorry,” Grell mumbles quickly, pulling her hand away to the safer waters of his thighs. “We don’t have to-”

“No no, it’s fine,” Undertaker interrupts. “I want to, love. Really. Just…a little like pulling off a bandage, hm?” He gives her a slightly strained smile, but tangles his fingers with her own, tugging her hand back gently to settle over the bulge under his trousers.

She looks up at him consideringly for a moment. With an unconvinced hum, she rubs her cheek against his leg reassuringly. “You can still tell me to stop. I won’t mind,” she promises, leaving it at that as she kneads lightly at his erection with the heel of her palm.

He starts to melt a little at the rhythmic pressure. “Mmh, now why would I want that?” he purrs with a more familiar lazy grin, leaning his weight back on one hand. Grell bites her lip with an answering smile of her own, taking her time to feel the shape of him straining against his trousers. She’s starting to get rather excited herself – he’s warm and solid under her palm, a more than respectable length and girth from what she can tell. Still, she doesn’t want to rush the older reaper or make him flinch again, so Grell rubs her nose against his covered length, nuzzling at him leisurely while her hands blindly tug open the top few buckles of his tall boots.

Undertaker undoes the first button of his trousers for her, a small, unspoken permission to move on. His clothes are thankfully less complicated than his shoes; she pops the other two buttons open easily before hooking her manicured nails over the waistband.

“May I?” she asks softly. One last chance for him to back out.

She watches his Adam’s apple bob underneath the scar on his throat as he swallows loudly. But then he gives her a jerky nod, lifting his hips up a little in invitation, and she pulls his drawers slowly down over his thighs.

Grell can’t help the small, delighted “ _Oh!_ ” she gasps out when she finally sees him. It’s always a little exciting to come face to face with a new lover’s cock for the first time, in her opinion. Her eyes don’t even go to the scar at first, but to the smooth, flushed head, a rare splash of purple-pink colour on the usually dreary reaper. But then she pulls his underwear down further, and the disfigurement becomes a little hard to miss.

The scar crosses at an angle over the left side of his shaft, about halfway down, in a semi-circle that doesn’t reach all the way around – there’s a long, deep scar at a corresponding angle on his left thigh, she notices, as if whatever cut him started there and sliced upwards, catching his cock in the same movement. Grell reaches out without thinking to touch; his length curves suddenly to one side a little, a slight kink to it from how the wound healed. Her thumbs drag lightly over the underside where the scar is worst – if anything, it’s even more painful looking than the one on his shoulder blade. The stitches here were messy and haphazard, done as quickly as possible (and more than likely while half drunk on some sort of opiate to dull the pain, she guesses), and the skin has healed in lumpy, raw, ragged ridges around them. She can’t help wincing at the thought of having to stitch this up by oneself; her thighs squeeze together in sympathy.

It’s only then that she realizes how deathly still Undertaker has gone beneath her while she examines him. His arousal is rapidly wilting under her exploration – she looks up to find him gazing down at her with an utterly unreadable expression, face carefully blank.

“Does it still-”

“ _Yes_ , it still works!” Undertaker snarls angrily, emotion suddenly exploding out of him. Clearly these scars are more of a sore spot than she’d realized – he draws back, wound as tight as a spring. She can’t find it in herself to chastise him for interrupting and snapping at her, though – not when she knows this kind of insecurity so well.

“No, darling,” Grell murmurs patiently, stroking his inner thighs soothingly, “I was going to ask, does it…hurt, still?”

The mortician relaxes a little, breathing slowly through his nose. “Not really,” he replies in a grumble. “It’s a bit sensitive now, I suppose. Can’t get myself off dry anymore, needs some slick or it chafes too much.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she gives him a slow, careful stroke while she takes another curious look at his prick. He turns away with a grimace. It’s not so bad, she thinks; a little shocking at first, painful-looking to be sure, but not off-putting. Grell licks her lips hungrily. She very much wants it in her mouth, actually – there had been a nice weight to him when he was harder a moment ago, heavy and thick in her hand.

“Undertaker,” Grell sing-songs, a smile curling over her face while she tries to get him to look down at her, “Un-der-ta-ker.”

The mortician makes an irritated noise, but her needling finally gets him to turn his head. He startles at what he finds; the position she’s in suddenly seems to register, on her knees between his legs with her shirt undone and spit-wet lips tantalizingly close to the tip of his prick, peridot eyes glittering up at him – his cock twitches visibly with a surprised little jerk, a flush spreading over his cheeks.

“Please?” she murmurs, batting her eyelashes coquettishly. “Let me suck you?”

Undertaker makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He tries a garbled attempt at words a few times before giving up and letting his head tip backwards with a loud snort of laughter.

“Well, how could I possibly refuse _that_?” he huffs, chuckling softly. He uncurls one hand from where it had been balled into a tight fist on top of the coffin, cradling her face in his palm with a wistful smile. “Don’t, ah. Don’t feel you have to, though, to make me feel better.”

Grell nips sharply at his hand. “Darling, I don’t do _anything_ I don’t want to,” she tuts disapprovingly. “…Except overtime, maybe. And paperwork.”

That gets a bark of laughter out of him, posture finally loosening into a slouch, so she considers it a success. Grell nuzzles at his palm, pleased with herself, before batting his hand away so she can get to work.

She goes for the scar first, leaning in to lick a wet, slow stripe along it with the flat of her tongue while Undertaker’s breath hitches above her. Closing her eyes, she laps at it gently, exploring the feel of the raised scar tissue, the violent dips and valleys of it. The texture of his skin is different here, soft and elastic; the musky scent of him fills her senses, the messy thatch of fine, silver hair at the base of his cock tickling at her now and then as he hardens fully under her tongue.

Mouthing sloppy, spit-wet kisses along his shaft, she makes her way up to the head, one hand curling around the base to angle it as she pleases. Grell would never admit it out loud (there are enough rumours about her around the office as it is, thank you) but she secretly _loves_ giving head, perhaps because most men take one look at her sharp teeth and run for the hills. It’s a special sign of trust that Undertaker has shown her his biggest insecurity _and_ let her get her teeth near it. Determined not to let his faith be in vain, she wraps her lips carefully around her abundant canines, taking just the tip of his cock into her mouth, lapping at the velvety head and suckling gently.

“ _Nnffuck_ ,” Undertaker curses softly above her. Grell would grin if she didn’t have her mouth occupied already. She lets her eyes flutter open, looking up to find him staring down at her with something close to reverence. She tastes salt against her tongue, narrowing the tip of it to a point to coax more precum from his slit. Dipping her head, she takes him a little deeper to where the foreskin rests just under the head, tonguing at it messily while she sucks.

“Mmfh, you’re _very_ good at that,” Undertaker says with a breathy chuckle. Both of his hands come to rest on her head again, sharp nails scratching lightly against her scalp in a way that makes her shiver happily. “Heehee…doesn’t even matter if you nick me with those teeth, hm? Now that would be a scar I wouldn’t mind adding to my collection…”

Grell manages to make an irritated little _hmph_ around him in response. She shuts him up well enough when she abruptly takes him deeper, swallowing him down to just past the scar before her gag reflex forces her to stop there. Undertaker makes a choked noise like all of the air has been knocked out of him, fingers tightening in her hair. Not giving him a chance to breathe, she begins to suck and bob her head in earnest – she can feel the ridges of the scar slipping in and out from her lips as she draws her mouth up and down his shaft. The older reaper makes a very interesting noise above her, the salty taste of him leaking profusely against the back of her mouth. Grell allows herself to feel a little smug, huffing a satisfied little sigh through her nose.

Still, she can’t help wondering what his scar would feel like in certain other places, and by the tension in the mortician’s thigh under her palm she had better back off if she wants to find out. She pulls off with a hard, slow suck, making a little _pop_ sound as he slips from between her lips completely, a trail of spit stretched between them.

“You said something about slick?” Grell smirks, pressing her mouth back up against the head of his cock as she speaks. She raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

The mortician’s mouth drops in a surprised little ‘o’. For the second time that night he scrambles away from her in a hurry, but thankfully this time it’s only across the room to frantically pull open desk drawers and rummage through their contents. Grell struggles not to laugh at the ridiculous sight of him with his trousers around his thighs and boots half-undone, stiff, spit-slick cock jutting out.

“A _ha_!” he crows triumphantly, brandishing a little jar in the air.

His face suddenly falls when he notices his fingers around the jar and remembers the very long, very sharp nails that go with them. He looks at them with such a crestfallen expression that Grell really does burst out laughing. Legendary reaper, indeed – if dispatch could only see Undertaker now.

“Come here, darling,” she giggles, patting the coffin lid invitingly. “It’s alright, I’ll do it myself.”

The older reaper gives her a sheepish grin. He hops, trips and stumbles his way out of his complicated boots and back to her, kicking off his shoes and trousers inelegantly until his long, scarred legs are bared completely.

“If I remember correctly, you said you’d show me yours if I showed you mine,” he points out mischievously, sitting back down on the coffin in just his open shirt. “Now why am I the only one nearly naked?”

Grell rolls her eyes with a smile, pushing her shoulders back to let her own shirt slip from her arms to the floor. She wishes there was a little more to see when it comes to her chest, but she’s quite fond of her narrow waist at least, and she hopes the shiny red jewellery in her navel will distract him from the lack of breasts. Standing so she can kick off her heels and deal with the buttons on her trousers, Undertaker is immediately drawn to the piercing like a magpie to gold, reaching out with a nail to poke at it curiously.

“Stop!” she laughs, squirming out of his reach. But, somehow…on her feet she feels so much more exposed to his view. Her giggles fade quickly and she hunches forward automatically to let her long hair fall and cover her flat chest. Her fingers hook over her waistband, but she can’t quite bring herself to push it down.

Undertaker’s expression softens with understanding. “You’re certain you want this?” he asks gently, brushing her hair back behind her.

She hesitates a moment longer, but tonight her libido wins over. Insecurities be damned; she’s finally got the older reaper where she wants him. Drawing herself up with all the confidence she can muster, Grell arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Darling, you’ve been teasing me for _weeks_ ,” she says imperiously, tugging down her trousers decisively in one go.

“Ohhh, how awful of me,” Undertaker coos, grinning as wide as a jack-o’-lantern at the sight of her smooth, white legs. “How very patient you’ve been, my dear. I had better make it up to you, hmm?” He hooks a finger around the edge of her lace panties (black instead of red today, for once), pulling her flush to him so he can kiss her pierced belly button. His hands creep around her thighs and under the flimsy fabric of her underwear to shamelessly squeeze at her arse.

“Old pervert,” she scolds fondly, doing nothing to reprimand him other than petting at his silver hair.

“Little monster,” he retorts, smirking against her skin. He looks up at her, resting his chin on her stomach, watching her expression carefully as he pulls her panties down her thighs. Her smile back is a little watery, she can feel it, but it’s okay – really. She’s done this bit before. The mortician draws back a little to take her in, brushing the pads of his fingers lightly over where she keeps herself waxed and smooth.

“Pretty all over,” Undertaker murmurs appreciatively. Nerves and concentrating on her lover mean she’s only half-hard, but she feels herself twitch at his warm breath tickling her cock. At least his is a good few inches bigger than hers; it always makes her feel more ladylike to be the smaller one. “Pretty, pretty…” he repeats to himself, his hands coming back to knead her buttocks while he attempts to lean in and lick her.

“None of that,” she says, grinning and pushing his head away playfully. Another night, when they’ve done this a few more times together, maybe; she dances out of his hold so she can step daintily out of her underwear. Undertaker pouts exaggeratedly in a way that makes her giggle, making grabby hands at her in the air. Dropping down to hands and knees, she crawls back over to him, giving her backside a little wiggle for show. “You’d better hand over that slick if you want me, darling,” she purrs invitingly.

The speed at which the jar is pressed into her hand is really quite flattering.

Grell twists it open, finding it pleasantly scented and vaguely floral. She dips two fingers in – ever the optimist, she had taken the time earlier to come reasonably prepared; it shouldn’t take too long to open herself back up with the help of the slick. She settles one hand on Undertaker’s leg for balance, reaching back with the other to press inside her hole, sighing contentedly at the feeling of being filled again.

While she scissors her fingers slowly, she wraps her lips around the mortician’s cock, less for his pleasure and more her own, simply holding him in her mouth and enjoying the weight of him there. Undertaker lets her do so without complaint, just watching, enraptured, as she prepares herself, though his hips shift a little restlessly with the instinctive need to thrust into the warm, wet heat surrounding him.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmurs, brushing her hair away from her face with slow, repetitive strokes. She moans around him, hurrying to add a third finger. “Come here,” he says, pulling her off his shaft and up so he can lick messily into her mouth. The change in angle makes it easier for her to reach her sweet spot with her fingers, gasping into the kiss with each brush against it, desperate for him to be inside her.

“M’ready,” Grell decides, drawing back and getting to her feet. She reaches out to take his hands in hers with a grin, tugging him up too. “Take me?”

Undertaker gives her an answering smile, equally wide. Shrugging off his grey shirt as he gets up, he gestures a little awkwardly to the coffin he’d been sitting on, before folding up his shirt to make a little pillow in front of it.

“I apologize that I don’t have somewhere better to lay you in this shop,” he says. Better over a coffin than in one, Grell thinks to herself, but a bed would be nice. “You deserve the finest mausoleum, my sweet.” _Hell_ no.

“Just a mattress next time is alright with me,” she says tactfully. Kneeling on his folded shirt, she bends over the coffin, resting her elbows on the lid and peering at him seductively from over her shoulder. The older reaper snatches up the little jar, hurrying to spread some slick over his shaft, earlier insecurities apparently forgotten in the face of Grell putting herself on display – he’s doing wonders for her ego tonight, honestly.

Undertaker drops down behind her, kissing her tailbone and all the way up her spine with noisy, exaggerated _mwah_ s that make her giggle, until he’s covering her almost entirely with his body, long silver hair falling around the two of them like a curtain. She can feel his cock pressing up against her, slippery against her skin with the slick – she pushes back impatiently, wriggling a little underneath his weight to try and get his prick lined up between her cheeks at least.

“Patience, my ruby,” he chuckles against her neck, punctuating his words with a lingering kiss. She feels him reach between them to take himself in hand – then the blunt head of his cock, dragging over and around her rim, while his other arm hooks around her middle to keep her still. He presses in slowly with just the tip – just enough to make her gasp at the thick intrusion – then out again. Then again, a little deeper this time, and again a little more, until it seems his own patience runs dry and he sheathes himself completely, gradually stretching Grell open around him, balls pressing up against her perineum.

It feels- oh.

_Oh._

“What?” Undertaker says nervously, stilling his hips. Did she say that out loud?

“Nothing, just- do that again?” Grell asks breathlessly. The silver-haired reaper’s hips jerk once and- _oh_ , oh she definitely made a noise this time, a shocked little squeak. He does it again and, yes, there’s no mistaking it.

“D-darling…your _scar_ ,” she moans, chin knocking against the wood of the coffin with a little hollow thunk.

“Is it uncomfortable?” Undertaker asks worriedly.

“No, it’s- it’s _perfect_ ,” Grell says blissfully. “Mm, it’s in just the right place.” How can she describe it? It’s like with every press inwards he’s rubbing against her sweet spot several times over, first with the head, then the firm ridge of scar tissue and the tip again as he pulls back. She knows there are all sorts of fancy toys designed for just this sort of pleasure, and here her lover is with the perfect shape almost by mistake.

“Is – _ah!_ – is it okay for you? With the scar?” she manages to gasp.

“You feel like heaven, love,” he croons, right next to her ear. “It’s… _nhh_ , perfect, like you said…”

With that final worry soothed, she relaxes completely. Filled with tentative confidence the mortician begins to move in a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust firm and purposeful; Grell cries out softly with every one of them. She can hear the slight note of disbelief in her own voice – yes, she’s done this before, but with the scar dragging over her prostate it’s so much more overwhelming. She’s glad for the coffin holding her weight up (even if there is probably a corpse in it) because her thighs are already starting to tremble terribly. Having his arms wrapped tightly around her hips and his body pinning her down is just lovely, too; he’s surprisingly warm for someone that looks like their pulse gave up trying centuries ago, damp breath panting hot against her neck.

 _Fuck_ he feels good; not so thick that it hurts but girthy enough that she feels perfectly full. The quiet little grunts and groans that he tries to hold back, the way he grips her like his afterlife depends on it, the sweet friction of the scar tissue…

Grell has never been all that successful at coming from penetration alone. Which is perhaps why it sneaks up on her so suddenly, a slow-building warmth deep in her core that she doesn’t quite recognize until she’s toppling off the edge of its peak with a startled shout.

She comes with her cock completely untouched. It’s different, coming like this, less a spurt of cum and more of a drawn-out, messy dribble oozing from her slit, the pleasure of her orgasm deeper and more central and rippling all through her body until her legs shake and her hips twitch violently. The older reaper goes very still behind her while her walls clench and squeeze at him erratically. Her harsh breathing seems so loud in the quiet, once the sensation has faded, leaving her with a sort of liquid, boneless feeling that tingles all the way to her fingers. And, unlike when she strokes herself off, her cock is still just as stiff as before.

“Did you just…?” Undertaker trails off disbelievingly.

“…Yes?” Grell answers with just as much surprise. “Yes,” she says with more certainty, taking one of his hands and pressing it to where she’s still achingly hard, if a bit stickier, showing him her want rather than having to say it out loud. “Keep going, darling, more, please.”

“After that I doubt you could stop me,” he growls into her ear.

He snaps his hips hard, the slap of skin meeting skin echoing around the workroom, drowned out only by the way Grell yowls like a cat in heat at the motion. If she thought his scar felt good rubbing against her before, post-orgasm her sweet spot is even more sensitive. Undertaker is merciless, fucking into her at a harder, faster pace, and pinned underneath him Grell can do nothing but tremble and take it, scrabbling to hold on to the smooth wood of the coffin lid and yelling her pleasure into the night nonsensically (she might be cussing him out. She’s honestly not really sure what’s leaving her mouth right now, only that it’s both too much and that she never wants him to stop).

What must they look like, a pair of near gods rutting like wild animals; the noise of their coupling is truly obscene, slick and wet and loud with each time the mortician pounds into her, his breath coming heavy and laboured against her skin. Grell feels like a second peak should be some sort of insurmountable, impossible mountain, but with the way Undertaker is fucking her it’s more like being pushed up and off a cliff, wild and out of control and shrieking all the way down.

He finally lets up when she climaxes again, stilling behind her while her whole body twitches and spasms through her second orgasm, caught between the ancient reaper and the coffin lid, toes curled tight. She doesn’t spill nearly as much this time, still wrung out from the first go, only a thin dribble of cum dripping messily from her tip and onto Undertaker’s grey shirt crumpled on the floor beneath them, but the feeling is just as intense if not more. For a moment, Grell’s body is totally out of her control, eyes rolling back and mouth hanging open, wailing like a whore while her hips shudder and legs jerk until her climax finally releases her. All of her limbs feel simultaneously floaty and twice as heavy as they should.

“Fuck…fuck, the _feel_ of you when you come…” Undertaker groans. “I’m so close, love, please, just a little more? Once more?”

Grell nods her head drunkenly. She’d probably agree to marry him if he asked.

He’s gentler now, mindful of over-stimulating her and the exhausted little whimpers she can’t quite help making, rocking into her with slow, smooth thrusts, in and out. She feels like she’s melting, boneless and sex-drunk and warm and lovely, lying there like a ragdoll made for the mortician’s pleasure. His cock is so hard inside her, still so wet with slick and precum, the stiff ridges of the scars dragging over her prostate in long, torturous movements, sweet agony. Though she desperately wants him to finish inside her, Grell doesn’t think she can possibly manage a third time, already too over-sensitive and almost on the edge of everything being much too much.

But then again, Undertaker always has played dirty. He reaches for her neglected cock.

Grell tries to shriek, but it comes out as more of a surprised choke. His hand around her sticky length throws her brain completely off kilter, unable to deal with the unexpected sensation of being stroked at the same time and not quite in rhythm with his thrusts. She’d resolved to simply hang on until her lover reaches his own completion, but now her mind goes utterly blank save for the building sensation racing down her spine like a gasoline fire.

This time she comes with her cock, a weak little splatter of cum against the wood of the coffin, and Grell really does scream – she’s honestly surprised there’s anything left in her after being wrung dry by the first two. It’s a more familiar sort of pleasure made new and dizzying with the combination of his scarred length and calloused hands and her already exhausted body.

The vice-like clench of her hole around him when she comes pulls Undertaker over the edge with a bellow, hips stuttering, desperately sheathing himself as deep as he can. Somewhere between her own trembling, she can feel his cock throbbing with each pulse as he spills his load inside her, hot and wet. She can’t get pregnant, she knows, no matter how much she wishes for it – and even if she could, reapers aren’t anywhere near as fertile as the living – but the warm, sticky feeling of being filled with cum still satisfies something deeply primal that makes her sigh with utter, fucked-out bliss, closing her eyes and smiling dreamily. And if she pretends for a brief moment that she can and that it’s another organ entirely that her lover is spending into, well…only she needs to know.

It’s probably a good thing that she doesn’t technically _need_ to breathe as a reaper – the combination of several orgasms and Undertaker’s dead weight pinning her to the coffin has her struggling to draw breath. She can feel his ribcage heaving above her too, choppy lungfuls of air tickling the nape of her neck. His arms are still wrapped vice-tight around her abdomen, sharp nails digging into her flesh; she hopes he leaves scratches for her to admire in the morning.

Eventually the ancient reaper rouses himself, making a rumbly, contented sort of noise in his chest, lifting his head just enough to drag his lips along her shoulders. Undertaker heaves himself up with a groan, cock slipping gently from her. His cum doesn’t follow immediately – it takes a few moments of her hole clenching and opening around the sudden emptiness before it begins to dribble out and down her thighs to join her own spend.

“What a mess I’ve made of you, my garnet,” Undertaker chuckles.

Grell makes an ambiguous noise in reply, not bothering to move an inch from where she’s draped over the coffin lid. Words seem like a bit too much effort right now. She just closes her eyes and basks in the afterglow. She can hear Undertaker getting up behind her, moving around the room to do…something, but she can’t muster up the energy to care much.

Her drifting is cut short by the sudden press of something cold and wet on her thigh that makes her jump. Grell glares over her shoulder at him blearily with one eye.

“Sorry, sorry,” the mortician laughs, sounding not at all apologetic, grinning while he drags a damp washcloth over her skin. “Turn over for me?”

“Mmgghhh,” she whines. But he _is_ very handsome and he _did_ just make spectacular love to her, so she decides she can manage to flop onto her back for him. He just laughs at her more.

Once he’s apparently satisfied with his work, he hefts her into his arms bridal style and lays her down in a different coffin on the other side of the room (which is, frankly, all the confirmation she needs that they did indeed just fuck on top of one with somebody already in it, but she’s too boneless and sated to scold him). She’s not particularly fond of the idea of sleeping in a coffin, but the lining is plush and soft, a well-loved black velvet, and once Undertaker gets in beside her and pulls her close it’s really rather pleasant. The older reaper lets her get comfortable, settling her head on his scarred chest and curling into his side, before he closes the lid and it’s just the two of them naked in the dark.

Grell reaches out blindly for his soft cock where it lies spent against his hip, gently stroking the scarred skin between her thumb and forefinger.

“I’m keeping this,” she declares sleepily. “It’s wonderful.”

Undertaker laughs hard and loud enough to knock the shop sign loose outside, but he doesn’t say no.


End file.
